


Disco & Rhyme

by YogurtTime



Category: Johnny's Entertainment, KAT-TUN (Band)
Genre: M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 16:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13104375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YogurtTime/pseuds/YogurtTime
Summary: Junno needs a new a rhythm.





	Disco & Rhyme

 

 

 

It’s never been this complicated before.

Simple would be the fit of Koki’s jeans. When he’s stretched out on his stomach, the curve right at the bottom of his spine makes Junno’s palms itch to follow its flow. Simple is the way his fingers feel, tugging and strong, an insistent clutch on his arm that makes him imagine another hand wrapped around him when he’s got his own fingers on himself. It could be simple; the heat of Koki’s skin when he flushes with laughter brings Junno little thrills; make him wish he could do that to him always. Simple is his mouth, curving and somehow always open saying something passionate and sharp-tongued and Junno just wants to feel the burn of that mouth on his.

And wanting all that should be simple too.

There’ve been other attractions of course. Here and there. There’s his usual game. He meets someone, likes them up and down and sideways and then he jumps them in generally the same way. It’s always other people, where circumstance makes it an instant OK, messy and quick at the best of times, but still simple.

But with Koki he ends up playing a different game and he doesn’t even know why it’s just a lot of waiting; just waiting for a sharp-edged moment, a hot little second when he’s just near enough that Junno can simply _take_.

In hindsight, he must have run it through his mind a hundred times. All those cues he should have grabbed a hold of; he’s always just a little bit off and more often than not, Junno feels convinced he’s missed his chance.

Then-- when he’s just about to give up-- Koki would glance at him guardedly, liquid hot brown eyes smoulder a cigarette burn right through him. Junno wants him. It refuses to be like any other type of want where Junno would find it only convenient and perfectly logical to just run with it. Any other time, it isn’t someone he has to see every day; at any other time, he isn’t avidly crossing things out on his schedule to make sure he can _keep_ seeing that someone every day.

And Koki _does_ things. Little things. Sometimes he grabs Junno near the edge of his belt, or he lays himself all over the place, way _too_ near Junno. He’s gone as far as to press himself close, wrapping arms around him, and Junno’s beginning to think something’s gone terribly wrong because if there ever were cues to pick up on, these were it. And still Junno’s waiting while Koki pushes and pushes against him and Koki himself doesn’t even seem to realise. Aside from the obvious list of awful that could come from sleeping with someone you work with side by side for a sordid, glamorous life sentence of a career, Junno can’t bring himself to reach out and just _take_.

 

*

Junno drops into his couch to watch TV, letting his legs hang over the side and when Koki comes over, he unceremoniously throws himself on the other side of the couch with him, tossing his shorter legs over Junno’s with nothing but a, “What’s on?”

“Not much. I think we missed all the good stuff.”

Koki shifts, the backs of his knees scrape up Junno’s thigh and in a moment Junno’s going to push him off because he just can’t. “Nah, all the good stuff’s after midnight.”

“That’s true,” Junno replies, keeping it banal and trying with every fibre of his being not to move. There’s _two_ couches; the _other one_ is comfier. He watches in a little dry-mouthed awe as Koki drums his fingers on his leg, staring at the screen absently and for a swift second, Koki’s tongue sweeps across his lips. Probably tastes like a cigarette. Junno’s heartbeat shudders right through him.

“I’ve been thinking of writing a song,” says Koki in their silence.

Junno sits up, agonising over every little second it takes as his calves push over the backs of Koki’s thighs. “Oh?”

Koki looks at him, a trained and uncertain look. “Yeah, the both of us.”

Romantics would declaim Koki’s every feature and Junno feels every awkward wordless bone in his body. He’s grinning like he can’t stop. “Can we?”

Koki shrugs and looks back at the TV, corner of his mouth tugging. Simply pleased. “If you want.”

“I want,” Junno hears himself say emphatically. Koki leans his head back and regards him lazily.

“Why are you acting like we’ve never done this before?” he queries, brows quirked quizzically.

Junno freezes. “What?”

“Doing a collab; we’ve done that before. Well, except that time you wrote it and just told us what to do.”

It takes a brief moment before he can come down again. Koki feels so warm on him and he’s steadily more mystified at himself, why he simply can’t drag him by the legs, until he’s grabbing up his thighs; just close enough-- his hips would so easily fit in his palms—where he could ask Koki how he wants it.

“Yeah,” Junno says articulately.

“You were pretty much steering us around when you had the choreography job. You like to order people around, don’t you?” Koki presses playfully and Junno thinks there must _definitely_ be something wrong with him. So close. Koki’s mouth curves complacently, looking utterly safe and content curled behind Junno’s legs.

“Ah, no…,” he can only think to say, still smiling and euphoria has him in its clutches. “I—well, this song would be your turn, wouldn’t it?”

Koki looks intrigued. “I get to tell _you_ what to do now.”

Junno has it all mapped out in his mind and he can’t move a muscle and there Koki sits, comfortable and smiling at him with each gaze like a personal invite. He forces a laugh. “Whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want,” Koki responds, looking off at the TV again.

The images flash across the screen as Junno quietly flips through some channels and he stops at the familiar flicker of a music video. Hilcrhyme. Koki smiles and Junno taps his foot against the side of the sofa, nodding his head as each thread of the bass strip starts. He’s tapping in off-beats, the kind that makes his muscles sing with the command in each note.

“I want to write something that’ll get people like this,” Koki muses; he isn’t looking at Junno, but he simply stretches across what little divide they have with one arm and grabs the remote out his lap. “Make ‘em move,” he continues, breathing out slow as he says it, pressing his thumb to the volume.

Junno thinks he releases the same breath, equally as slow, trying to tear his mind off the cloy of the beat as it gets louder, each image flashing for only a millisecond. “Yeah, all it takes is a good hook.”

Koki shoots him a sidelong glance; it seems to linger like anything he does to Junno and the beat is still heavy, starting to creep up Junno’s bones. Yes, this is best. Music. Music isn’t complicated to him; for Junno it’s like every cadence and rise in note is a naked order, tethering him straight to where the clouds live. To move with it, it’s as simple as breathing and suddenly the ravine between him and Koki doesn’t seem so uncrossable.

“A good hook _is_ always possible,” Koki finally says and nods in a practiced motion, whole body insinuating a welcome.

Junno raises his leg, still utterly blissed out in the rhythm and slips it under Koki’s hanging calves. Koki grimaces because Junno’s taking up more space, but he does nothing but shift further up, resting the heel of his hand not on, but near Junno’s thigh. Junno knows at least one quarter of the lyrics; he mutters out a rap lyric and Koki laughs at him, palm dropping without hesitation on his knee.

“Like this,” Koki says and begins to tap, one hand on his own lap and the other on Junno’s knee. “This is how you rule a song, make them forget the lyrics because the beat is hitting them harder.”

Air doesn’t matter; Junno’s certain of this. He can live without it as long as this goes on forever. It’s definitely a hook, quick and insistent like dancehall wildfire tempered in the heat of Koki’s fingers. Junno has never been this still in his life and he aches for some predetermined action meant for him while Koki’s touching him so easily.

“What do you want me to do,” he breathes suddenly, helplessly. “Tell me.”

Koki looks at him in surprise, eyes round and reading something startling in Junno’s own stare. A conversation seems to happen in their silence. Koki visibly responds to several never-spoken words Junno feels he’s silently screaming at him. The way Koki opens his mouth to say something, then clamps it shut, lower lip pushed out in a curious frown has Junno incapable of breaking the stare.

Finally Koki drops his gaze, looking almost as punchdrunk as Junno feels. “When the song’s finished,” he says quickly. Then he clears his throat, looking back at the TV screen, colour climbing his throat, flooding from his ears to his cheeks.

Junno just wants to make him promise.

 

*

 

It isn’t done for weeks. And they don’t have another second like that night on Junno’s couch. It was almost as though simply avoiding the subject of the song swept whatever happened under the rug.

And Junno still can’t bring himself to end this game, and that makes even less sense because it’s not just starting to hurt, it _burns_ every time Koki so much as draws near.

Then it’s just another studio recording day. They always record individually and the audio engineers would later overdub their voices with the instrumentals. The others have gone home and Junno is the last to go in. The producers and recording engineers sit scattered around the control room, eyes fixed on the mixer and compressor. It seems just a normal enough day and Junno does what he’s told-- routine like it matters.

When he’s about to leave the studio, making his courtesy bows and picking up his things, he’s startled when Koki steps in just as the last of the general audio staff are exiting.

It’s instinctive when he says it. “Ah, did you stay behind to wait for me?”

Koki gives him a quick deer-in-the-headlights look before grimacing off a smile. “Of course not! I just booked the studio,” he snaps. “But you can stay, though,” he adds quickly.

Junno sets down his bag, watching Koki come around him towards the mixer and compressor. “What f--”

“It’s done,” Koki cuts across him suddenly, saying it quick like he hadn’t meant to say it at all, looking a little alarmed at himself. “The song, I have the demo.”

It’s the first time in weeks that either of them have brought up the subject of the song and it brings that night and the tension with it in a total flood right over their present as Junno freezes.

“I figured we could listen to it. It’s really just the instrumentals; I need an idea for the lyrics’ theme,” he says haltingly, unearthing a CD case from his jacket pocket.

“Yeah,” Junno almost stammers. “Yeah, of course.”

Koki drops into one of the swivel-chairs in front of the mixer, holding out a pair of headphones as he pushes the plug of it right into the near-field monitor. Junno slides into the seat opposite, accepting the headphones while Koki swivels away to tuck the CD in the slot. Koki doesn’t look at him properly again even once Junno pulls the headphones over his ears, leaning a little back in the leather chair.

The song starts like a lit match just struck. It careens in on an invasive bassline and Junno sits up, blinking off at a middle distance as the guitar starts up. There are beats Junno knows he’s wired to fall for instantly and he knew it would happen, but it still has him in rapture and shock when it rises like he can already anticipate each undulating riff.

Koki’s looking at him, sitting very still and awaiting a reaction on bated breath. “How is it?” he’s practically mouthing it because Junno can’t hear him.

Junno nods, pressing his fingers to the outside of the earpieces, trying to gain every chord. Koki gets up, seemingly trapped in a moment of sheer anxiety as he makes as though to examine the live room properly.

Junno shuts his eyes when the drums start to hammer at him, practically a new, and uncertainly aggressive order. In the blackness behind his eyes is a blooming, glaring colour; an insistent awareness that Koki is standing near him, still leaned over the table holding the mixer and compressor.

It’s rage, a whole lot of frustration reaping chords right through his ears and Junno follows them. He lets himself rock a little like there’s a wave growing in him, jutting out at sharp stops flavouring a perfect, breathy cut-off. It doesn’t help that he doesn’t want it to end.

He opens his eyes anyway and Koki has his back to the live room; he looks as though he’s been caught watching something he shouldn’t have seen as he blinks down at Junno. The music is dialed up so loud, ringing and shaking through his middle the minute the hook hits. It’s exactly like the beat Koki had played on him weeks ago and Junno knows that this is the very cusp of something important. Koki’s opus. And it’s just as he comes to this shaking-- really sort of solemn-- realisation, he sees Koki’s lips move under the fragmented bridge.

“ _Come here_ ,” he mouths.

Junno is up out of his seat before he can think it through. He towers over Koki as usual when he steps up this close and Koki looks immediately overwhelmed. It’s definitely really fast; a little too fast for both of them, but it feels like they’ve both been listening to this forever, trapped in a limbo before a chorus.

Koki’s features are etched in blurred, but glaring detail and Junno, looking down at him-- his eyes, his lips-- feels like he hasn’t breathed a proper rhythm in ages and the thing thundering away in his chest, practically killing him must really be the only thing Koki can hear while Junno’s deaf to everything else but the hiss of snares and an experimental test of guitar strings trembling in just his left ear.

“What do you want me to do?” Junno asks. This time he can’t hear his own voice, only sees Koki’s hands grab at the table behind him, and the quick thought flashing in his eyes.

When Koki gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head, the fragility of the outro crashes in. It’s just like Koki’s grasp on his arm sometimes, and even while he insists on presently standing here inches away, hands behind him, Koki’s still pulling on him.

The song dwindles, plays out but doesn’t fade; rocks itself shuddering until its finish and Junno _still_ can’t do it. They’re just on the edge of this moment becoming imperceptible, something distant and unfair; something they’ll never speak of again.

The song ends. Koki doesn’t move, his eyes remain wide and frightened like Junno’s the one that called himself here. He can practically inhale the crisp note of Koki’s cologne. Koki keeps his gaze trained, searching Junno’s expression in silence, all wondering and guarded at the same time.

The track starts again. It’s on repeat. And Junno thinks bitterly of being locked in a loop just as he moves to step away, prepared to shut the door on this increasingly awkward thing they keep doing.

A grasp so much different than the pull of the rhythm or the way Koki would tug for his attention sends him nearly stumbling forward. Koki grabs two fistfuls of his shirt and the off-balance has Junno’s hands planted on the table on either side of Koki, whole frame fallen right over him.

“ _No_ ,” Koki mouths urgently, looking a little wild and frantic.

Koki hesitates; there’s no question in his gaze and Junno hasn’t a clue what to do because the music makes it feel like they’re silent, in a room barred from sound; no asks; no tells. Koki seems to give up guessing, clutches ‘til his fists are trembling and tilts his head upward, stretching himself as high as he can manage to crush his lips to Junno’s.

His lips are full, mouth burning and so much more than what Junno’s imagination could conjure up. It starts off just Koki testing-- tasting-- pressing forceful gasping kisses on him. Junno’s fingers curl over the table when Koki pulls him tight, closer; close enough that when he leans his whole body in, it feels like he’s climbing Junno, jeans scraping the shape of him, curves and delicious arching muscle in the dig of his knuckles against Junno’s chest.

He yanks Junno closer, pushed back on the table so his thighs spread, hooking Junno into heat. The output on the headphones snaps out of their hole and the music shatters the silence outside the dome of the device, As Koki reaches up and pulls the headphones away, Junno can hear only a muted tremble in his voice as he murmurs the words, “Koki, I can’t..,” drowned out in every new bar of poly-chord bliss.

It’s all shaking nerves; Koki grabbing for this desperately because yes, any moment someone may walk in and yes, any moment it’ll be a matter of making sure Junno isn’t just following a struck chord or moving only because Koki’s body so blatantly wants him to. If he asked, Junno would say that’s it; he’s being dragged in on the edge of never quite wanting to end the loop and wanting, no _needing_ Koki to just take it from him. His choice; his inhibitions.

Junno opens his mouth, only feeling the gasp choke out of him when Koki hums a faint moan on him, rocking his hips like he wants Junno’s hands touching the skin there right under his t-shirt. Junno’s legs part where Koki slides against him; his warm tongue laces just so over his, vibrating an almost petulant order of a whine as he guides Junno’s tongue into his mouth. He presses his hips so hard that Junno can feel his belt digging and creasing into softness.

Koki’s mouth is delicious wet, but Junno gains a hot thrill when he pulls back, withdraws just a little and Koki murmurs a panting, “no,” against his lips. He just clutches tighter because the bass is shaking them together in tremors they couldn’t manage at this frequency.

This is all Koki’s rhythm and Junno needs this, needs his own rhythm completely stripped from him because it hasn’t been working, and it isn’t enough. So now while Koki is recklessly losing himself in the risk of things that could go wrong, he’s dragging a dazed Junno right down with him.

The hook strikes like it did last time and Junno’s starting to rock himself on Koki, closing his eyes because everything he’s afraid of is outside where there’s more than just music and the heat of Koki’s body. Koki arches against him when Junno does slip his fingers in the space between his jeans’ waistline and the pert, fevered skin of his hips. Koki moves sinuously and Junno only notices that they’re unconsciously following a rhythm when his cock presses right over the zipper groove of Koki’s jeans. Even the shudder of his hips is controlled; too slow.

Koki’s arms come around him, clutching at his back, clawing when Junno breaks for air and mouths down a sharp line to his voiceless pulse. Koki’s song still thuds new imperatives that ache in him as he starts to push himself, starts to make the graze fluid enough through fabric. He licks the slickest corner of Koki’s mouth, feeling each moan like a numbing tremor.

It’s on that very note that Koki lets his hands fall away from the back of Junno’s shirt back to the table and they look at one another. They’re trapped in a silent film, incapable of making words or asking questions. All of this can and will only be what Koki wants simply in the way he moves, easily in the way he’s silently demanding, saying so much with his body he’d never say aloud.

Koki turns himself in Junno’s hands, flattening his own palms on the table as he faces the window of the live room again. Junno, grieving over the abrupt loss of contact, presses over him, digging deep. He’s already far gone when Koki twists and darts a fevered, pleading look at him before he intentionally arches his back. With one very wanton flex of his back, he presses the curve of his ass over the front of Junno’s trousers. He bites his lip then like just that feeling is what he wanted while the music still penetrates every joint in Junno’s body.

Junno places his hands over Koki’s as he nuzzles along the side of Koki’s neck, mouthing the trail of a vein, tonguing it when Koki pushes himself back and spreads enough that Junno is suddenly trapped by a blatant contact of denim pressing in along Koki’s crease. The frantic way he does it; the way his cheeks flush like he can’t quite believe himself is what makes Junno find his mouth again. He thrusts him into the table, curling his fingers in the spaces between Koki’s spread near the compressor.

Then they’re kissing as the outro starts. He feels hot all over while the speakers scream out guitar chords and rattle him from the bottom up. Junno’s tongue fills Koki’s mouth, sweeping at the pace Koki is essentially dry-fucking himself on him. He can hear Koki’s words only from the feel of his lips, making uneven phrases. Junno keeps his eyes shut, feels him out in the dark still helplessly keeping to the rhythm of Koki rolling his hips, pushing like he hopes Junno will just do it to him.

 _”I just fucking want you,”_ he groans over the line of Junno’s jaw, upper body twisting enough so he can lick and nip down Junno’s throat with his lower half trapped against the table. It feels like Junno has no choice in the matter as Koki rolls his whole body to the deafening waterfall bass. His pleading words could be just another part of the song.

He must be possessed to be able to do this right here. The music has long drowned out the sounds in the hall outside and all he feels is the threat potential of Koki spread under him with the song riddling him with new shocks the longer it blasts across the corners of this small room into them. It could be just that because there’s no controlling the way Koki pulls his left hand out from under Junno’s and reaches for his own jeans’ button. He upends their pattern as he yanks viciously at his waistline, dragging it down enough that Junno’s crushing himself-- a single fabric separating them-- over actual skin.

What could be a plea is a command in the way Koki bends double over the compressor and twists his arm back, getting a hand between them to grab right at Junno. Junno, himself, has no bearing; it’s a free-fall and he clenches his teeth at the brush of Koki’s fingers over the cold line of his zipper. He lets go of Koki’s other hand and gets a hand on his own belt, tearing it away without thinking. He pulls his trousers down just enough that he’s out and groaning at soft, dry friction he’s never dreamed he could ever get.

Next to the dazed and frantic feeling of needing more, Junno is aware that even if they weren’t in a place where they could easily be caught, Koki wouldn’t give him the chance to undress him completely.

With the demand in Koki still arching and canting back, Junno ruts up on him against broken, half notes and the dying slam of the finishing bass line. Junno’s at a near-end but Koki is sobbing for more, words no longer known with his body stretched out against the hard surface of the table. He _has_ to and there’s no ending it; he doesn’t know how to want anything else anymore. He thinks how his bag is just laid over the arm of the chair behind; how some distant past where he used to know how to take the way Koki’s taking him has a container of str8cam hidden in one of the pockets somewhere.

Reaching for it has Junno pulling away from Koki for only a miniscule moment and it’s only then he gets to see the full scope of Koki’s state. His eyes follow Junno, glazed and soaked with desperation with his mouth open in soundless breathings. Junno had at some point pushed his t-shirt up his spine leaving just the shameless look of Koki’s jeans dragged down the backs of his thighs. There’s no sound strong enough against the command of Koki’s skin.

He’s back on him in only moments, dripping copious amounts over the crook of his fingers. He doesn’t remember when he pressed Koki so completely open in the last second, but Koki’s spread enough that Junno’s fingertips along his rim is wholly visible. Junno presses both in, getting them nearly there by rubbing himself on the delicate stretch of skin now spread under his knuckles and around Koki’s perineum. The mixer has the music driving as hard as they are and Koki pushes himself down, taking Junno’s fingers deep and Junno can _feel_ his ragged and choking moans from the inside.

He doesn’t know if Koki hears him when he gasps out his own plea just as the head of his cock strips a wet line up the naked skin of Koki’s thigh, angling upward. He lets Koki control the pace still and Koki undulates back on Junno’s hand, pushing until he’s deep inside and pressed to Koki’s back. Junno lifts himself in just over his fingers and he stops breathing once the tight swallow crushes the tip. Koki takes in both Junno’s slow, careful thrust and his fingertips pulling him even wider. It’s clearly a challenge for Koki to manage both and as he pistons himself back determinedly, he becomes a writhing, gasping mess in a hot second, wet palms sliding across the table.

Junno has to remember how to catch his breath as Koki forces himself to adjust, growling a faint hunger before he kicks up their rhythm. He plants his hands firmly on the edge of the table, spreads his legs and Junno presses his knees against the backs of Koki’s in an overcome second of finally being pulled in so tight. All sounds, thoughts, and fears go still for razor sharp moments as they helplessly start to rock together. Koki goes faster, tempers separation enough that Junno has to slam back into him when they come back together.

It’s almost like a muted dance and he sees the way Koki’s back tenses, whole muscles clenching as Junno frantically tries to keep up. It’s music in and of itself, trying to hear the sound of Koki crooning out, open and slipping over Junno in holistically mind-crumbling twists. He can feel the flex in him; how he loves it and that’s enough to push Junno into orchestral emptiness.

He doesn’t know at what place the song is when it crashes back into his eardrums more deafening than before, but he lets it wrap around him when it does as he wraps tighter arms around Koki’s chest, closes a cocoon over Koki’s racing heartbeat and gasps release against his neck. Koki remains rigid and still moving under him and Junno is close enough to his chest that he hears each stifled sound he makes like a coded lining on the edge of a laser disc.

Each of Koki’s sharp exhales make his rib cage swell bigger and Junno holds on tight, wishing he could see how Koki would look at him; now, when it’s all over and the music plays on without them. They are so singular here, one form completely wrecked by the beat and heaving out their last breaths of strength.

He pictures lying stretched on a dancefloor with Koki, all beaten under sharp notes and destructive, violent movements, but still together like this. Koki reaches up, just a faint squeeze, his palm touches over Junno’s wrist like he’s making sure he’s there. As though they’re both numb and Junno is shaking when he finally rests his lips, presses a deep and worshipping kiss on the cotton at Koki’s shoulder.

Koki reaches out. Hits ‘stop’ as he finally gasps out something fully audible. His fingers still play over Junno’s arm wrapped tightly around him.

“I think this beat is going to be deadly,” he breathes.

Junno-- currently unable to retrieve the rhythm he had before Koki-- can’t think of the right timing to tell him that the body count from this beat is probably already at two.


End file.
